Bord / Edge

Debout sur cette rive une fois de plus.
Sur le bord de l’existence.
Je voussens dans le vent.
Je me sense arrosé dans le marée.
Est-ce que je me vois marcher sur cette plage?
Ou je me sens perdu dans un million de grains de sable.

Stand on this shore once again.
On the edge of existence.
I’m standing in the wind.
I feel watered in the tide.
Do I see myself walking on this beach?
Or feel lost in a million grains of sand.

Beauty trapped

Bind my heart, break my bones.
Sneak in when the lights are off.
When my guard is down.
Snap my soul and slip inside.
Overwhelm and consume me like heroin.
The addict in me pulls you near.
Breathe me in, suck me out.
Spun up in your mind like a crystal chandelier.
Precarious precious beauty.
Your hands on my innocence.
Pulling me down, knocking me over.
Teaching me how to fly.

Forever Winter (Part 18)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


THE MOUTH OF THE DRAGON

The gentleman of the boxes stumbled into the clearing, tripping over a branch that had been hidden in snow. “Damn it!” he yelled, falling face first into an unspoiled drift. He got to his feet, brushing off the cold white fluff that clung to his long coat. He shook himself much like a dog, clearing the remaining patches of snow and moved on into the clearing and towards the well. The group had not long left, he could make out their tracks in the snow heading off towards the break in the trees where the path led.

He approached the well, now blocked by the magic that the lady of the jars had performed. Though he too was practised in magic arts now, he did not know of this kind and he looked on in curiosity to the strange structured elements, tiny parts of the colo twinkling ever so softly; trapped now. He took out a small box from his bag, not much bigger than a match box. He scraped some of the residue off into the box, returning it to his bag. Then he looked up, and his curiosity once again turned to anger.

“That bloody woman!” he yelled, his voice reverberating around the clearing.

Above the now blocked well, a huge plump grey cloud floated, sprinkling out heavy drifts of snow which fell like cotton wool. The lady of the jars had also set a snow cloud to cover the well quicker and deeper in snow, another way to fight back she had thought.

“Not content with the whole land covered in her blasted snow, she pots about with extra clouds to madden us all!” He said, grabbing off a chunk from the well and sending it angrily up towards the floating mass. It fell softly through, hitting one of the trees not far from him.

He heard it then, movement from the direction of the hit tree as if an animal had scuttled out of sight. He heard another movement too, this time to the side of him. The gentleman of the boxes had lived in the woods for many years now and knew a lot about the habits of nature. He ducked down, reaching into his pocket for something. He watched silently, and then he heard another sound, a rustling in the same tree where the clump had hit.

He was quick and quiet as he lurched forward and threw out some tiny amber stones which seemed to hit his target. He approached cautiously, keeping his distance slightly. It was a Dimian, as he thought it might be due to the well. He did not fear these creatures, quite the reverse. He knew that they contained much power that could be extracted if you knew how. The amber stones he had thrown clung to the little black blob, pinning it down now like tree sap. Its eyes flashed in alarm, and it oozed some sort of green foam which stained the snow around it.

It was rare for them to be on their own, and the gentleman looked around him quickly, checking to see if there were others. Satisfied there were not, he approached the little creature.

“I guess you were attracted to the same thing I hunt too.” He said, opening his bag and reaching inside. It is true that the Dimian were tracking the girl from Europa, this one had become confused by the power the lady of the jars had used on the well. It had lingered and become lost, trying to return underground. The gentleman of the boxes took out a glass jar, and scooped up the creature, quickly stuffing a stopper in the top. The stones that had pinned the thing began to hiss and melt inside the glass now, and slowly began to turn into a soft brown liquid. The Dimian flashed its eyes once more before the liquid covered it completely, freezing it as the liquid solidified.

The man took out a small cardboard wrapper and covered the jar like a wine bottle. He preferred using boxes, naturally, and even using a jar irked him as it was a practice of the lady of the jars. But this was the only way he could preserve things alive, unlike his boxes of the dead that he handled usually. He smiled to himself in his successful capture, as Dimian are notoriously hard to catch and can always be quite dangerous. With a fresh spur of energy, he chased on after the group, embolden now to succeed.

The group had trudged on through the trees, the weather remaining more open and calmer to help their path. The girl from Europa took in all that she saw, for on her planet there were no things as trees, and the animals there were quite different. She spotted an owl in one of the trees she passed and asked the lady about them.

“Usually nocturnal, but I fear my incessant snow confuses the poor dears.” The lady had said, noticing how large the owl was.

“Nocturnal?” the girl asked curiously.

“Only out at night-time, sleeps all day. The lucky devils.” Ezra said, looking behind them to see if they were being followed.

“Oh, I see. Yes, we have creatures that have similar patterns. Our days are long there, but some only come out at certain times.” She said, somewhat dreamily.

“It’s interesting how so different, yet so similar things are.” The lady said, smiling at the girl. The girl smiled too, comforted by the familiarity. Even across the vastness of space, simple things connected them.

“I think there’s trouble brewing.” Ezra said, nodding his head back in the direction they had come. They all looked that way and could see some birds taking flight just off in the distance.

“Oh my, I thought we would have been there before he came along.”  The lady said.

“It’s that man, isn’t it?” The girl asked, closing her eyes and seeing the shadowy images now of both him and the Dimian. The shapes moved like clouds in her mind, one brighter due to its proximity.

“Yes, he’s a pebble in my shoe that’s for sure. But he has maligned intent on you I am afraid, and we cannot be doing with this now here in the middle of the woods.” She added. “Ezra, we need…”

But Ezra was already moving off down the path where they had come from.

“I’m on it.” He called back to them. He held out a little vial, the Dragon’s tongue that the lady had given to them all to keep them warm, and to add some light to their journey. Rushing now, he went down the path until he was in a dense spot of trees. The ones here seemed to clump together, throwing dark shadows, and casting much murky thoughts. Ezra stopped, looking around quickly. He could hear the movements coming off further, but he thought he could make out two groups of noises.

He did not hesitate, tipping out the Dragon’s tongue flame into his hands where it flashed in the air of the world. Tipping it back and forth like a hot potato, Ezra breathed onto the little flame, and muttered the incantation that he knew only too well. He was the keeper of the flame in his little post, protecting her cottage back home. The flame roared and grew upward and out, a real magical dragon soaring up to the trees. The red beast roared and sneaked around the trunks, gobbling the light up and creating a black void in its wake. Ezra turned and ran back to re-join the group as the dragon raced through the wood, destroying the light that lay hidden between the trees and cast down from the sky above. It was as if a huge hand was brushing a blackness over the wood. Not the kind where your eyes could adjust to, but a dark void that allowed no light to remain. The red dragon danced in spectacle and haste, snatching the light, and roaring its triumph. It raced back to Ezra, sweeping an emptiness around them as it shrank down and returned back into the little vial that he held out for it.

The lady of the jars held up her own little light, casting a beam off in the direction they needed to head.

“That should do it for now.” She said, nodding in satisfaction. The girl from Europa stood and smiled at Ezra.

“That was wonderful.” She said, having been transfixed by the dragon’s dance.

“It was nothing.” Ezra said, proudly. Whispering a gratitude to the Dragon’s tongue flame now residing safely back inside his little vial.

The blackness did its job. Not only had it blocked the way for the gentleman of the boxes, but it also permeated below the ground. Now, Dimian are used to underground conditions where there is little light, but the magic from the Dragon’s tongue flame does more than paint things black. It disables senses and orientation, and for them it overwhelms them with a pocket of energy from the spell. So, while they consume in their static state, they are completely disoriented, much like the little one that unfortunately found its way into the bag of the gentleman of the boxes. The man too was bamboozled by the snatched light. Now lost in the dark in the middle of the forest. He searched the depths of his own mind for a resource to help him, for he had had enough now of the woman’s meddling charms.


 

Stuck

I dreamt about the future.
Unravelling and revealing.
Yet all they do is talk it back.
I’d been beyond before.
Far away and out of reach.
Such things I’d seen.
Now the stars drip down like lies off a tongue.
Hold it and eat them. Consume.
Cough.
Try to let me in again, though a distant world away.
An outcast to the tribe.
This could be the saddest day.
And though I get lyrical, as I always will.
Tarred and caught in the well-placed trap.
I ask that you touch me once more.
I am trying.
Come walk these shoes and wear this soul.
Give me new direction.
So easy to get stuck.
But not the other way around.

Sweetness follows

Jasmine lips and honey eyes.
Dance on my flesh like miniature dragonflies.
Growing roses in my heart.
The ivy of my mind to twist into.
Licking your skin and tasting the ocean.
Chasing your wave and finding sand in my shoe.
You.
Blue and free like the sky that pulls over my eyelids.
Whispering into my skull, the tantric movement of tomorrow.
Taking me off to another land.
Where your skeleton slips into my skin each day.
And crystal tears carve a path right through me.
Amber shivers and slumbered eyes, welcoming these dreams.
Tip-toeing through the water lilies of your world.
Hovering like the hummingbird of your heart.
Beat and hum.

Recapturing

The silent soul who wades this world.
With brittle bones and sad inclinations.
Arrives at a place in a memory.
Strung up with words that bind.
Does he fall deeper into the despair of an age?
Of that turning sun that snatches all that lay in his hands?
Or does he shift, arch his back to the march of time.
Following from the front, the best laid plans?
A solider in a war of change.
Corrupting from within.

Love come rescue

Arrived, 4am. Too tired to see the world for what it was.
Slipping into the cracks and shadows that fill my eyes.
Too numb to notice that I couldn’t notice you.
Standing with arms outstretched like wings.
The wren that always had strength to fly.
That slipped into the open wounds and found our hearts.
It patches us up now, flitting inside our skin.
Pulling feathers over broken bones.
It does not notice the cartilage cage it builds up around itself.
A prison to its good intentions.
It too now needs help, to lift up and soar again.
Love, please come rescue us.
Make us fit to fly and leave this place.
With only fallen feathers to show we were here at all.

BOOK RELEASE – Four by tara caribou

Raw Earth Ink

I’m happy to announce the release of my second poetry collection, four. Four is 185 pages of black-and-white photography and poetry by me. This book will only be available in paperback through me directly and on lulu as well as in e-book format on Kindle. The e-book releases December 1st and the paperback is available right now.

Back copy:

Wherever there is number, there is beauty.’ -Proclus, Greek Philosopher

Four. Four seasons. Four elements. Four phases of the moon. Four is the number of humanity in the physical realms and represents the now. It is a foundation in calmness and being grounded.

Within these pages you will discover fresh perspectives on love in its many forms. You will see the earth through the eyes of nature. You will feel the despair, the horror, of dark depression. You will feel the green tendrils of new love. Inside you may even…

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Forever winter – Between the jars (How to bottle weather)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


How to bottle weather

The lady of the jars has many of nature’s wonders stacked and stored in her secret room, away from prying eyes (though she keeps the door unlocked, a sign of her gentle trusting nature). This magical art was not taught to her by anyone in particular. Which perhaps is a shame, as she does like company. Instead, she learnt how to do this from the Guāng-shu, her own little magic bible that was passed down through her family. Pages have been ripped out, new pages added. A suspicious crystalline stain permeates one of the sections towards the back which refuses to be cleaned. Though passed down through her family, the book was never intended to end up in her hands. This may have been to save her from her fate, or because of the doubt in her abilities. But through a series of events that still surprise her to this day, the book was hers when she was old enough to read and need it; and need it she most certainly did.

Jars fill her little cottage there by the stream, as the snow tumbles down incessantly outside. She is forever getting new vials, jugs and glass jars delivered. Not so much through her proficiency of usage, but lately, more to her failing eyesight which refuses to be remedied by the wearing of glasses. This leaves the broken jars tipped away in the rubbish, and many a swear word emanating from her little house. But she is at one of her happiest times when the world is chugging along outside her cottage and she is bottling her own little worlds there into jars. The colours, smells, (and at times) shocks, en-thral her still; bottling up such wonders and seeing the majesty and power there in those little jars.

To bottle the weather….

  1. Pick a day that the weather you wish for is at its most potent. The intensity leads to longer shelf life.
  2. Set your jar in a pool of water (this conducts the elements required for storage).
  3. Place a ‘Tan-ya’ stone in the bottom of the jar (imitation stones will not work).
  4. Recite the incantation located in the Guāng-shu. This might be hard at first as, depending on the type of weather system, as reciting the incantation while the elements swirl before you can be demanding. Most bottlers work alone, trusting few with the magic; though and extra pair of hands here could be of benefit.
  5. Channel the power down into the bottle, sealing it quickly. This may take some time depending on the nature of it.
    NOTE: Hurricanes are decidedly tricky.
  6. Once bottled, swirl the jar until the Tan-yastone breaks like an egg. This seals the condition inside and prevents escape or leakage.
  7. Store in a cool place where sunlight cannot enter.
    NOTE
    : Sunny weather systems will, ironically, pale if infiltrated by the sun’s rays.

As impressive as bottling the weather is, her favourite bit of magic has to be the ‘Dragon’s tongue’. A single little red flame that ignites and burns within one of her little jars with the ability heat at the strength of the smouldering centre of the earth. This she keeps tucked under the blanket in her bed. Her own little wizardry water bottle.


Death in neutral

Death comes, not in the sudden felling of your tree of life.
That monumental crash in the wooded realm of existence.
Or in an avalanche of silent demise,
Crashing into white off a precipice that follows a climb.
Death never leaves a new life.
It breathes silently on your skin.
Like a misty voice, cold and condensed.
Dew dropping its pain along the way.
Watching as your petals of life fall.
A new one each day.

dead rose skull


Taken from
Seasons of a wandering heart

book cover snow and tree


 

Something to stay awake for – You hurt me like no other

Listen to this episode.


I wish I could believe you. Or at least have the courage to leave you.

Always the same, predictable. She could set her watch by it. Rolling out of bed at four in the morning. The sticky sheets peeling away like unripe fruit. The thick berry, throbbing dehydrated and disorientated in unfamiliar rooms. What was their name? It didn’t matter. She’ll never see them again. She’d never notice them recognise her in the street or walking past the office door clutching a coffee cup. Yet still she came back, time and again. The one.

Don’t look at me like that. I said don’t look at me this way.

Disappointed stares. They dug into her like a scratching animal looking for food. Tearing the skin away and seeing the blood wash underneath. Checking to see if she bled like them, if she had a soul. Sometimes the eyes would ignore her completely. Erasing her like a waft of bad air in from the street, pungent; but hastily dispersed. And despised. She hated those looks the most. They crawled over her, making her invisible. She would smash her wrists against the wall to check she was still whole, that there was something still of her that functioned; that walked and talked and hurled abuse.

And hurled it well. The neighbours had complained of course, those fuckers. The police had even visited. But she could be quite persuasive. ‘Yes officer, no officer. It must have been the TV. Of course, I’ll be more careful in the future. My number? Well, you already know where I live…’

They hated all that. The random encounters. It had been at the centre of most of their fights. She’d said it meant nothing. And of course, it did. She only did it for the attention. Attention that she was missing. Poor little victim. Here comes that pity party.

All those times, what did you think it did to me? I had to look away.

It had never been the same since moving to the city. Some would blame the bright lights, the lure of the sinful. Lust and danger lurking in the shadows of every street corner. If only they knew. The dangers lurked across her office desk. Inside her head. The polite smile in the coffee shop. Already in her mind. She hadn’t changed by coming here, just giving opportunities to pursue her dreams.

Dreams? Is that what it is? Looks like a fucking nightmare to me. You said you’d change for me!

“I know I did, and I tried…. I have. What do you want for me anyway? I’m here aren’t I?” She scratched her skin again just to check. The fading light outside had darkened the room and she had trouble seeing them, even though they were so close. She could smell them. A wash with alcohol and teeth whitener. The mattered hair and the smear of makeup. Who were they to say anything about her?! She worked fucking hard, she let off a little bit of steam at the end of the week. Big deal. ‘You’re not my fucking mother’.

What a disappointment you are to her. She always loved you, you know; despite what you put her through.

“Shut up.”

That poor woman.

“I said shut up.”

Have you seen that bruise around your eye? The halo that is shining for the devil. That’s not a result of not sleeping or walking into a doorframe. That’s the fear building up inside of you. The darkness pooling like an infection.

She knew others saw it too. When they looked into her eyes now, a chill came over them. Her non-blinking shark eyes. Swimming over the city in survival mode. That, that was what the city had changed in her. Forcing her to keep up with the rest. Go jogging at weekends and drinks after work. Where was the room for her soul to breathe as the miasma of the city choked her lungs and settled permanently in her bones?

She pulled her hair back, feeling the cool air beneath her neck. She knew they liked this.

I want you though. I’ve always wanted you.

She laughed an ugly laugh, full of blackness and mockery. “You want what’s best for us, that’s all. You don’t care about me really. I still have the scars you know, the ones you gave me.”

The itching on her wrists became incessant. Like a bug crawling its way out. Such pretty scars for a pretty girl. A mangled mess of a generation. The hot tap hissed away; she felt the burn on her hands.

It was so easy at the beginning. When you didn’t feel like running away from your feelings.

“Didn’t you hear me? Or don’t you care. Again, and again I scream my thoughts, and you don’t hear.”

What’s the matter? What is it remind you of?

She looked them dead in the eye. A tempest mix of hatred, love and desperation.

I wish I could believe you.

“I wish I could too.”

The low light of the bathroom etched around the corner of the mirror, and the tap she’d turned on began to steam over the glass. Obscuring them from view.

“I wish I had the courage to leave you.”


More fables here

After the Party

Ivor.Plumber/Poet

My new book“Tullawalla”, has been released and to order the book, here are the links

Barnes and Noble.. Tullawalla by Ivor Steven, Kerri Costello, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Amazon.. Amazon.com: Tullawalla eBook: Steven, Ivor, Costello, Kerri, Harris, patricia: Books

www.books2read.com/Tullawalla

After the Party

I’m wallowing here at my desk

feeling spent and exhausted

and I hear the day’s echo’s resounding

as my pulse rate is pounding

and like a fish out of water I’m floundering

flipping, thrashing, and blundering

I’m waiting here, beached and pondering

what is to become of my words that are slumbering

Ivor Steven (c) April 2021

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Lurk

Malcontent to stop me dreaming.
A bitter play that keeps revealing.
Scenes upon a static stage.
The macabre heart for this new age.
For doubt replaces it’s bloody setting.
A pumping organ that keeps forgetting.
That you lurk inside this hazy past.
A haunting ghost that always lasts.
And wades on through our murky trauma.
Pining for a love that former,
took the place you now reside.
And kills this love that I tried to hide.

Forever winter (part 17)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


SOMETHING WICKED

If you were ever to see a Dimian on its own, a rare thing indeed, you may be excused for assuming the little creature was harmless, desperate and even sweet. Though not being nocturnal, for their hunger drove them despite the hour, when they searched for the source of their sustenance they moved in the darkness and the shadows. Keeping out of sight to catch you unaware.

The danger of the Dimian were they did not discriminate. If you were in possession of some form of magic, then you were a target. Those wizened beings, or those fully empowered by the ancient world of wonder were like walking feasts to them, their soul desire in the world being to consume and retreat for their hibernation. You may think yourself safe if you were to be caught in places where they are known to be, for what magic do we truly possess unless we are in touch with the power? And for that belief, many have come a cropper. Dimian feed on ancient magic, power, and strength; and what is more powerful than hope and love? Those who have been in ecstatic state of love and belief have been befelled by these little creatures, hungrily consuming the light that dwelled within.

Dimian are small, little blobs of creatures who move en masses. They are small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, with their skin slick and black like a wet seal. They have eyes, which you will only see when it is too late, the glowing turquoise orbs appearing in the moment of devouring. These little beings move in droves, under the ground like moles; tunnelling through the landscape to find their source of food. Their senses attuned to frequencies that vibrate through the world all around them, fear directing them like road signs, power beckoning them like pleasure. Both the girl from Europa, and the lady of the jars were much too tempting to pass up.

“This is new to me.” The Lady of the jars said, going across to the well before them.

She looked inside, nudging some snow into the black opening and listening to it tuffly tumble into an abyss. The well was of a usual size, nothing unordinary about it. Its sides made of large grey stones which looked to have been settled there for years. No signs of recent activity led to, or from the well, and aside it’s appearance suddenly in her mind, the well was of little importance to the world.

“Maybe you forgot it was here, you’re not as sharp as you used to be remember.’  Ezra offered, shivering a little.

The girl approached the well, touching the sides. But instead of looking down as is usual, she looked up into the sky. The clearing naturally had a ring of trees around it, but the trees all seemed to hang back into themselves, as if pulling away from the well at the centre. The clouds hung low, and you could not see above the line of the trees that circled them. The snow had eased, but little flecks still fell on them silently. Both Ezra and the lady looked up also, following the girl’s lead.

It was slight, no more than a twinkle. Little dusty patches of green hung in the air above the well like motes. These could not have been seen from further away, only by being underneath did they glimmer dully in the cloudy grey above the well.

“Is that….?” Ezra said, and the lady nodded back.

“Yep, it is. Dimian colo.” She said, matter-of-factly.

The girl turned to her, quizzically.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

The lady pointed up towards the green dust above them.

“Dimian are little creatures who dwell under the ground, great masses of them. They feed off of magic and power, charging themselves up before hibernating for eons at a time. In their process of extracting the magic that they feed on, they discharge an element known as colo, which is what we are looking at here.” She said.

“Is it dangerous?’ The girl asked her.

“To some beings yes, but to you and I it will just give us a headache and feeling of sullenness.”

“It’s basically Dimian crap. This is where they dump it out.” Ezra said, turning his nose up to the well and the green sparkles above him.

“Yes, well thank you Ezra for being so literal. Actually, in some magical practises, colo is quite useful.” The lady said, looking on it curiously.

“It’s rather beautiful, hovering there in the grey.” The girl offered, her hand resting on the side of the well.

“If you like that sort of thing.” Ezra said, unamused by it all.

“Well, yes I can see why you would say that. What is troubling is that this is here at all, they have clearly created an outlet.” The lady said, now peering into the well again.

“Perhaps it was hidden under the snow, and the water source had shifted. The well might just lead down into one of their tunnels and they have tapped into the extraction.” Ezra said, peering down also.

The lady stood back, thinking this over.

“Well, yes. Either way, it indicates Dimian activity; and that’s not good for anyone.” The lady said, popping her bag up on the well wall.

“What will they do if they got us then, how do they extract this power from beings?” The girl asked her suddenly.

The lady rustled about in her bag, but spoke plainly to the girl.

“They leach it out of you, they have a power to pull the magic from the cells. They are most deadly in their groups, but on their own or just a few of them will try to extract what they need and leave you feeling weak and even unconscious. They aren’t evil creatures, just needful creatures. Ah ha!” She said and produced a small like jar that had been nestled in the bottom of the bag.

“They remind me of many beings I’ve seen across the cosmos. They move with short sighted intensions, consume and destroy as they go.” She said, her eyes pierced by a sadness that seemed to leak outwardly.

“Yes, actually much like humans indeed. I guess they don’t have the consciousness to change or to see what they do. But there are things we can do.” And with that, the lady of the jars poured a yellow mixture deep into the well. The yellow liquid disappeared down into the blackness, and the girl looked on to see what would happen. Ezra had backed away, and the lady advised the girl to move back too. Suddenly, there was a whooshing sound emitting from the well, and a huge foaming column bubbled and sped up out of the well like a sprouting tree. It glistened like a metal; its foaming branches reached upwards to where the green colo hung.

Like a huge sponge it sucked the colo into it’s folds, taking much of the cloud covering from the clearing in with it. Very briefly, the little group could see up into the sky, the dark navy sea that was splattered with stars. The clouds joined once more, wiping away the image of night and the foaming tree before reducing itself downwards until it stood about a child’s height out of the top of the well. It hardened and dulled, the metal shine fading to a bark like texture. A few stones fell away from the side of the well, crumbling to the ground.

“There, well at least this area will be safe again for a while.” The lady said, closing her bag up.

“Won’t they just move elsewhere?” The girl asked.

“Dimian never stop until they sleep, but we can make it harder for them at least.” The lady replied.

“Dimian are a pain, and they cause a lot of havoc to this place. They’ll move elsewhere, but the harder it gets for them, the more chance there is of them hibernating earlier. They don’t like hard work.” Ezra offered, clearly glad the well had been put out of use for them.

“Don’t feel sad or upset for them dear. Besides, what we are moving towards will put an end to these unbalances of power anyway.” The lady said, offering a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“We don’t have creatures like this on Europa. Everything assists something else. We’re all connected and reliant on others there.” She said.

“Ah, well I’m sure as you’ve seen here already, a great corruption has taken place. Things aren’t balanced like they once were.” The lady said, almost with a sigh.

The girl from Europa thought about this for a moment.

“You’re right. Balance is fairness too.”

“You got that straight!” Ezra said.

“What we are doing is important for all.” The lady said, shuffling passed the well now and leading them both onwards.

The girl remained just for a moment longer, before carrying on with them. The idea in her mind about balance and fairness seemed to lie heavily. As if this was a key to the understanding she had been trying to grasp.


 

Accelerate

What have you done?
Today, this life; where have you gone?
Which angry root did you pull out?
What weak bone did you break?
What flood turned to drought?
Which love to an ache.
You may forget everything in the end.
As time shuffles by, and souls begin to bend.
But you have each moment, each second in the sun.
A little tiny diamond, reserved for each one.
To pick up today, and more the day after.
A small little treasure, like happiness and laughter.
So forget the mould and oil that covers you like gloom.
And go out and discover, shoot for the moon.

Everything (सर्वेषां स्वस्तिर्भवतु ।)

When the world wind weeps around you.
May the universe dry your eyes.
And happiness make you smile once more.
Sarvesham Svastir Bhavatu.
I cannot keep you safe from the conflict.
Or the wars within you.
But I offer you peace, from that of which I’ve known.
Sarveśām Shāntir Bhavatu.
You are taken from the mountain,.
You come in pieces.
And I too, but together we are more than less.
Sarveśām Pūrnam Bhavatu.
And if you fall, I will not catch you.
But I will watch as you rise again.
And applaud your strength, with an outstretched heart.
Sarveśām Maṇgalam Bhavatu.
We are but pieces.
Love is the is the whole.
Versions of the same form, spun from the same gold.

Something to stay awake for – Stain

Listen to this episode.


It had begun to rain, a light drizzle that peppered the people as they walked along Bradley Way. Not the prettiest street in the world, and today it was overcast with a churning grey cloud that dampened the mood and made things ever more ordinary. People walked up and down the road, seeking out the local small supermarket that had opened just last year. It was housed in a former pub, the Bull and horn; the cigarette stained walls and beer marked floors long since ripped out. Outside, the faux Tudor design was kept, hoping the inn-like appearance would entice more customers. But people shopped here anyway out of convenience. The newsagents across the street had closed a year ago also, the owner packed up and moved away after a red Ford escort had rammed into his shop and robbed him late on a Sunday afternoon. Unless you were willing to cross the giant playing field at the back of Ashen road to go to the giant superstore, the pub-turned-metro shop was the easiest option.

Just near to the store was number 46, and though it was starting to rain, Mrs Taylor was found scrubbing the pavement. She had swept and tidied already, and now she was striking the wet brush across the path like she was toiling the earth. She worked with determination, scraping and scrubbing the ground over and over. She never dressed for cleaning. She was made up in her Sunday best, as if she had just gotten back from church. Though the fine rain had settled on her hair, giving it a web like crown, her hair was in place as if she had spent an hour on it. She was an odd sight to those making their way down Bradley road. After a while, she packed up her cleaning materials and went back into her house, number 46, the one with the red door.

It was grey again. It had rained in the morning, and the streets glistened like slumbering snakes. It was Sunday again also, and the local football club had finished their practice over on the giant field. A few kids had wandered off on their way home, stopping in at the local store to grab a drink and some much-needed sugar.

Mrs Taylor watched them as they walked down her road. She was scrubbing again, hot water and bleach burned away at the pavement. The added soapy suds flowed down the kerb and washed up to the drain, down into the darkness. She watched them, and they stared back at her as they walked by. She did not frown; she did not glare. There was no smile on her face either. Just a determination to scrub and wash, and get the job done. By the time the kids exited the store, Mrs Taylor had finished and returned inside her house. She had gone to make herself a cup of tea, her hands stinking of bleach and had become pale. The kids thought no more of her, and carried on their way home, their hands a healthy peach and holding the chocolate bars like tiny swords.

​-

The whole street knew of course. They watched her every week. She used the same bucket, the same brush. She would start by sweeping up the dirt and leaves that had fallen from the huge oak tree that loomed over the garden from number 38. Joyce, who lived with the tree, had never cared form Mrs Taylor. Joyce was a generation away from the woman, and tutted and shook her head to her antics in private. But if she saw her on the street, she would always nod her head in quiet recognition. To which Mrs Taylor would always nod her head slightly back.

It was Sunday again. No rain today. Just thick dark clouds above threatening the worst. A nasty cold breeze blew in from the south, ripping through Bradley Way like an arctic arm reaching from the poles. She resigned herself to a coat today. She had lost more weight than she would care to acknowledge, and her frail body would shiver in the conditions now. Underneath her plum coat, she wore her Sunday best again. The pearls her mother had given her hung over her dress, little eyes gleaming out into the cold. She had also decided to use some gloves, not because of the cold, but because her hands were now so raw from the bleach. She sat at night picking at the loose bits of skin around her fingers, peeling away the hangnails that had appeared, paled underneath from all the toxins. They stung and hurt.

But she did not care. She wanted to carry on, so she used the gloves to keep the feeling in her fingers to get the job completed. To feel the work.

And she scrubbed and rubbed and washed the pavement.

Bundled up against the elements, Mrs Stokes, and her daughter Ivy were walking along the other side of the road. Mrs Stokes lived down on Humber Way, but she knew Mrs Taylor from the primary school morning mums run. She had seen her at the gates with the others, a gaggle of women with their precious little birds waiting for the gates to part.

Ivy watched her as she scrubbed on her hands and knees, the warm water cascading over the lip of the pavement. Ivy broke free of her mother’s hand and crossed the street without looking, going over to Mrs Taylor. Her mum called after her, following her onto the street.

It was quiet that day, few cars littered the road and there was a peaceful calm.

​“Hi.’ Ivy said to Mrs Taylor, who looked up from the floor. Her eyes were glassy and tired.

“Hello.” Mrs Taylor replied, friendly. Ivy’s mum came up to them, grabbing her hand.

“Ivy, don’t bother her. Come along, we have to get to the store. And don’t run off like that. I’m sorry.” Mrs Stokes said, looking down at the woman. With that, Mrs Taylor looked off slightly, as if searching the road for something.

“Why are you cleaning the path?” Ivy asked suddenly. They all shivered there in the cold. Ivy’s mum began to pull her away.

“Don’t bother her. I’m so sorry, she’s always curious. Come along Ivy.” Mrs Stokes said, eager to get away.

Mrs Taylor stood then, much more agile than her demeanour would suggest. She popped up like a dog ready for a walk.

“Its fine, kids are curious. I’m just doing a spot of cleaning. The council seem to neglect this part of town, and the road is filthy.” She smiled then, a warm smile as she looked at the little girl. She turned her head slightly, as if she heard something, then turned back towards them.

Mrs stokes, eager to get going smiled back, hoping it would be the end to the conversation.

“But, no one else cleans the pavement. I’ve not seen anyone do it like you, scrubbing away.” Ivy said, determined to understand. Mrs Taylor was silent for a minute and then replied.

“Well, you see there where you are standing; I just can’t get this bit clean. It’ll take some time, but it will lift.” She said, reaching back for her scrubbing brush, having looked more at the spot where the two stood.

Ivy looked down at her feet, seeing nothing but the black road.

“But there is nothing there.” Ivy replied.

“Come along now Ivy. Leave her to her cleaning.” Mrs stokes said, vigorously pulling the girl. Mrs Taylor laughed a little. A small laugh, brittle from its long hibernation.

“You kids think everything is already clean. I bet your room at home is a mess and yet you think its fine. No no, the stain there, it spreads up and across the pavement. I think it is oil, but it’s taking ages to go.” She sighed suddenly, as if reminded of the huge task in front of her.

“There you see. Sorry to bother you. Come now Ivy.” Mrs Stokes said, and this time successfully moved the girl who walked on still puzzled.

They made their way to the store and Mrs Taylor watched them for a few seconds before scrubbing a bit further and then packing up her things and heading back into her house, closing her red door behind her. She took off her coat and went upstairs. She always did this. She went into the front room of the house, the second big bedroom. Hers was at the rear and was slightly smaller, but she liked the view of the back garden. She liked the green. She went across to the window and looked down at the pavement.

“It’s still there.” The little girl said.

Mrs Taylor pulled at the sleeves of her dress.

“I know. I’ll buy the super strength bleach next week. That’ll do it.” She said to the empty room.

She looked up the street as a few people came out of the store. The old newsagents across the road had been turned into kitchenettes. She looked in through the ground floor window, a huge TV screen the size of the wall flashed away in blues and reds.

“Maybe in time, it’ll fade on its own.” The girl said.

She looked down at the spot again. A huge stain on the floor seemed to pulse before her. She closed her eyes and watched the red ford escort zoom away noisily like thunder down the road. She hoped she would never see it again, but she knew she would.


MORE FABLES HERE

Break the dawn

To kiss you into the night.
Would be more than I could pray for.
Lost in a world where you are my religion.
The transmigration I envisioned.
Waiting for that flash of crimson slitting the night sky.
Instead I made you cry.
As the ripe fruit of dawn broke over our lives.
I reached for it, I reached for you.
Finding only empty space.
And spent light.

Comes back to then

The red country hung before us.
Our life now a great adventure.
Your love was all I needed.
Your smile I planned to treasure.
Days crumbled, eyes tightened.
We were no longer tender.
The gulf began to widen.
I couldn’t stay.

Ten years in, I hoped you believed.
All of my love and my heart on this sleeve.
I cannot cry, I cannot lie. All I can do is die inside;
On the day that I had to go.

You told me to meet you.
Down by the Yarra river.
I wanted to keep us.
In my heart that had begun to quiver.
Life shifted, dreams folded.
My instincts ignored for worse or better.
We cried and imploded.
And then I left.

In all of my time, I barely ever touched what really was mine.
Life briefly showed me, everything that never really ever could be.
A cruel revealing, a maddening feeling of seeing all that would never last.
The joke from above, putting such beautiful future quickly in the past.

Forever winter (part 16)

The Story so far or Listen to this episode


Adventure with swiftness

They set off in haste and excitement, the little band of new friends and old souls. What the lady of the jars had said about dying had stunned them, but she had refused to explain further. P’erl, naturally, was not used to earth’s customs regarding inquiry, and Ezra had not pushed the point. It was as if a part of him knew what she meant, but there was no sadness or sorrow, merely passive understanding. The girl from Europa knew of death and ascendance. Back on her planet passing was not the same as it was on Earth. When people moved on to the next stage, their energy was condensed into a small ball; the body reduced down to a spherical composition of life. These balls were then placed into ‘wattlers’, huge ice ducts that looked like frozen organ pipes which descended deep into the moon. These would then be absorbed by the giant machine of their ‘god’, the churning mantle of their lives, regurgitating new souls out into the world. All the energy that would ever be existed there, and nothing really died, it was processed and recycled over and over. The Europans believed that the soul moved into a different space, above their moonly material realm, and that the energy left began another life.

P’erl knew that a similar process happened all over the cosmos, though different entities practised different rituals around death. She knew the lady of the jars would pass in a similar way, and she knew that this was a stage, and was comforted really by the fact that she knew when she was going. Many did not.

The Lady of the jars did not wish to discuss her death, for though she knew it was all a part of her process, the manner in which she were to go had always been foretold as being painful; and her visions recently had not been clear. But she believed this was her fate, and the girl had come for this reason. She was saddened by it, as there was much she still wished to do in her life, but she understood that these things were destined.

They took the path leading away from her little cottage, trudging through the snow and the wind which was slowly dying down. Before leaving, and while the others put together little bundles of clothes and provisions, the lady had tempered the weather slightly, aiding their journey but also masking their intent to those who were to follow. For to follow them she knew both the Dimian and the gentleman of the boxes intended to, and away from the protection of her house she knew they were more vulnerable. She had some tricks up her sleeves of course, but it was best to be prepared, and swift as they could be though the Mondol stone was not close.

The path took them deeper into the woods, the silence of the snow and the encroaching trees made light scarcer. The trees seemed to be bunching closer together the deeper they went, as if looking for woody comfort in the cold darkness they created. The lady led the way, the top of her cane glowing in a luminous bluey white light that reflected off the snow below and all around. They moved through like little characters atop a Christmas cake, the path digging deep into the ground below them that seemed undisturbed. She knew the areas all around better than many, she knew the tracks and the concentration of the animals in certain parts. And she knew where the darker energies concentrated, these were the areas where the animals themselves would not venture.

“You know, with all your hot air about being such a great magic caster; is there no way you could’ve just sent us to the stone in a flash?” Ezra grumbled, his foot falling into a hidden hole beneath him which made him stumble.

The lady cast him a furrowed expression, shaking her head and turning to check on P’erl.

“You knew the journey and stakes before we left, don’t start complaining now.” She said, then asking the girl. “Are you alright still my dear?”

P’erl smiled and nodded, she had no qualm with the cold or the snow, and the connection with them both and the journey they were on were indeed the reasons why she’d come here.

“Yes, I’m taking everything I see around me in; this is truly a wonderful world.” She added, looking up into the trees as tuffs of snow fluttered down, a small invisible animal knocking it off a branch as it scuttled into more unseen branches.

“I just think you’re a bit of a fraud, if you can’t even get us there with any magic.” Ezra said, tightening up his huge jacket, the hood of which nearly made his face disappear.

“You know it doesn’t work like that, and besides, projections and transporting have never been my strong suit. Best we go like this and be safe. I wouldn’t want half of you ending up frozen under a bridge while the rest drips in a gooey mess all over the stone.” She said bristly.

Ezra thought over this and seemed to agree by his silence.

They went on further, the trees becoming denser and the land beneath them becoming bumpier, the giant roots sprawling up and around the pathway which struggled to make its way through. Not many used the route anymore, and the ill feeling of this part of the wood was another deterrent for many wishing to journey through. It was tough struggling through the heaps of snow, but the light that glowed from her cane seemed to melt the path slightly as it shone forth.

“How old is the Mondol Stone?” The girl asked, coming besides the lady, seeming to float alongside her.

“Almost as old as her.” Ezra said, clumping his way behind them. The lady ignored him.

“The Mondol stone, oh it’s very ancient. If you want the silly story, it is believed to be the peach pit once eaten by a huge giant who choked on it, falling to the ground. As the flesh and bones rotted away, the pit remained, calcified by the ancient magic of the giants.” The lady said, chuckling herself to the story.

“And if you believe that, then you’ll believe anything. Besides, everybody knows giants hate peaches.” Ezra added. The girl smiling at them both.

“But the stone itself is very interesting, and much of our magic and power emanate from it. The Kahall who bore our magic from the earth in the times of the great before, wrote their knowledge upon the stone in the beginning. All that we know came from that place. It is an energy centre, the navel of our land, where the energy and power intensifies. The stone is old and sacred, and much has happened there. There is an understanding through all beings, light and dark, that this place is of importance and is respected.” The lady said, the gravity landing on the words the girl heard.

On they went, passing through the trees which became narrower and narrower, trying to be quick despite the snow ladened path. With the glow from the cane leading the way, the lady of the jars was lulled into believing they were taking the quickest path through. But much had changed since she had been through here before. She realised this when they came upon a clearing that should not have been there, at least she had never remembered one on this path. And she would definitely have remembered a well in the middle. This was new, and alarming to her. It seemed to yawn upwards, swallowing in the sky above.

He had lost them for a while now, the glow of the cane had dimmed and extinguished before him as they had moved deeper into the woods. The gentleman of the boxes had tried to keep both his distance, and up with them, but he had lost them when a fork had appeared in the path. He felt within him a pulsing energy which spurred him on, the little chunks of the cocoon from the crash site vibrated in his pockets, almost yearning to be returned to her. He let them pull at him, directing him on deeper into the trees which hung low and dark, and silent as always in the snow-covered land.

Beneath his feet, in the underground tunnels that marked the underworld like veins, the Dimian too followed. Their little hungry eyes consuming the light given off by the girl from Europa, the magic from the lady, and fear from the gentleman of the boxes.


 

Published Works

Raw Earth Ink

Hello friends,

This morning I woke up to over a foot of snow (when 3″ was forecast) and the FedEx driver calling me to say he would not drive down my road due to the deep snow. He left my package (proof copies of a client’s books) in a plastic bag in the snow bank and continued on. I, on the other hand, put my pants and boots on and headed down, down, down my driveway in snow up to my knees to collect my excitedly anticipated books.

Huffing and puffing aside, it’s all worth it to me, to open that box and pull out a beautiful book which an author has entrusted to me to edit, format, and ultimately publish. What an honor; I am blessed beyond words.

Recently, Hidden Bear‘s second edition book of poetry, Moleskine on a Coffee Table, released. I was delighted with not…

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An inner choir sings

You do not find it in the brush strokes of the saintly.
Or willowing wisps of utterances in cold hallowed halls.
Do not look for god in pages of prejudice.
Or underneath the rocky souls of the holy.
Light a candle and feel me.
Peel back the bits of Christ to find me.
Swimming in the shallow cells of you.
Awash, in the DNA of God.